


The Candle In Your Window

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Catholic Imagery, Crimes & Criminals, Drama & Romance, Happy Ending, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 15:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12214014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: Sam had been tracking Nomad for six months now, as the guy cracked security systems that were supposed to be impenetrable. Nomad had stolen over $100,000 in cold, hard cash from corporations that missed the money about as much as Sam would miss a nickel that fell out of his pocket — not that that stopped them from demanding back every penny, of course. Nomad then turned around and gave most of that money away to charity within forty-eight hours, making Sam’s job even trickier.So here he was, in the choir loft of a Catholic church on a snowy Friday night, hoping to catch a criminal. And his mother accused him of having no social life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel so blessed to have had [knoeipot](http://knoeipot.tumblr.com) as my artist. They truly went above and beyond in bringing my words to life. I cannot say enough good things about them, so please, do it for me — send them some love on Tumblr!!
> 
> Special thanks to my cheer-readers, Hekkenfeldt, calliope-soars, and i-will-not-be-caged. Congrats to all my fellow SWBB participants for adding more Sam content to the world, and a HUGE thank you to the mods for their hard work in organizing this celebration of Sam Wilson, AKA The Best Guy Ever. 
> 
> Happy birthday, Sam!

The nun who opened the door to St. Mary’s Cathedral at 11 o’clock on a snowy Friday night seemed doubtful, and Sam couldn’t blame her; he knew he didn’t look like a cop in his jeans and winter jacket. But when he showed her his badge, she nodded and let him come in. He told her as much as she needed to know, and she allowed him to stake out the choir loft, though she still seemed skeptical that his guy would show. Sam got it; he was skeptical, too — playing a hunch, one might say.

Below him, Sister Joan tottered around the sanctuary like a giant penguin, extinguishing candles and generally straightening up the place. She assured Sam that she’d be leaving soon, wringing her hands about the snow, promising to leave half the wall bracket lights on. He wondered, as he heard the door click shut, if she left the church unlocked. His father always did, but that was almost thirty years ago, and Sam was willing to bet that nothing in his father’s church was as valuable as the statues and paintings in here. That said, even if she did lock the door, Sam suspected that Nomad could let himself in.  

He’d been tracking the guy for six months now, as he cracked security systems that were supposed to be impenetrable. Nomad had stolen over $100,000 in cold, hard cash from corporations that missed the money about as much as Sam would miss a nickel that fell out of his pocket — not that that stopped them from demanding back every penny, of course. Nomad then turned around and gave most of that money away to charity within forty-eight hours, making Sam’s job even trickier.

Sam figured out his pattern last week, but Nomad had surprised him; Sam had been sure that he would hit J. Dunham, Inc. last night, so he’d staked the place out with a full team. They’d waited all night, only giving up when Captain Danvers called around 3AM to say that Smith Holdings had been hit instead. So, with no bad guy, and no sleep, Sam sent the team home and went back to the drawing board.

Three cups of coffee and a power nap later, he had an idea. He knew Nomad would be looking to part with the $12,000 that he took off Smith Holdings last night, and he also knew that Nomad liked to donate his stolen funds to Catholic organizations. He started researching, found a few local options, and took a chance on St. Mary’s. The church hosted a hot meal for the homeless every week, and funded more than a dozen afterschool programs. But what sold him was that St. Mary’s was currently accepting donations to replace the roof.

So here he was, in the choir loft of a Catholic church on a Friday night, hoping to catch a criminal. And his mother accused him of having no social life.

He was almost dozing when the front doors creaked open a little after 2AM. Quiet footsteps moved through the foyer, directly under Sam, and finally a blonde head appeared below him. Nomad paused at the font and blessed himself with the holy water; Sam smirked and silently climbed down the stairs.

When his perp was halfway up the center aisle, and Sam was only a few paces behind him, he stopped and cocked his head half-back, giving Sam a clear view of his jawline, the black arm of his glasses and the tiny hearing aid in his left ear.

“Detective Sam Wilson, I presume,” he said.

“You know me?” Sam asked.

“Only by reputation,” Nomad answered as he turned around.

He was wearing a white collared shirt with dark suspenders and jeans with the cuffs showing over his boots. Over one tattooed arm was a heavy wool jacket, a black knit hat poking out of its pocket. His posture was calm, but his eyes — grey-blue in the half-light — reminded Sam a little of a trapped animal: wary and apprehensive.

Nomad glanced down and back up, taking Sam in. “You know, you’re not quite what I was expecting.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Sam replied shortly. “On your knees, hands where I can see them.”

Nomad held his hands up, then slowly lowered his coat to the pew next to him. “You’re making a big mistake, Detective,” he said as he got on his knees.

Sam unhooked his cuffs from his belt with one hand, keeping the other near his holster just in case the guy turned out to be armed. “Is that a threat?”

Nomad bit his lip and then sighed, his face going flat with sudden surrender. “No. No, of course it isn’t.”

“Good,” Sam said. “In that case, Steve Rogers, you are under arrest—”

“How did you learn my real name?” Rogers asked suddenly.

“I’m just that good,” Sam told him. “Now let’s try this again. Steve Rogers—”

But Rogers interrupted him once more. “Is that all you learned?”

“What, you don’t know your own rap sheet?” Sam burst out, annoyed. “You want me to review it? Because I can if it’ll mean you stop interrupting me.”

Rogers blinked, the trapped expression came back to his eyes for a second, and then he swallowed and shook his head. “No. No, that— that won’t be necessary, Detective.”

“Good,” Sam said.

He took a breath and started again. Once he got through the entire Miranda spiel, he pulled Rogers to his feet and patted him down for a weapon. There wasn’t any, just as Sam had suspected — nothing about the thefts had suggested they were done by someone who enjoyed violence. In fact, he found nothing in Rogers’s pockets, not even so much as a gum wrapper.

“Guess we’ll have to officially ID you down at the station,” Sam decided.

Rogers nodded wordlessly. Sam took him by the upper arm and started to lead him out of the church. They’d only gone a few steps, however, when the lights abruptly flickered.

“What the—?” Sam mumbled, stopping and looking around.

Rogers turned in Sam’s grasp. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” Sam replied. He was in no mood for casual conversation, unless Rogers casually wanted to confess.

Rogers scowled, but didn’t say anything more. They made it another few feet down the aisle when the lights flickered again, but this time they went out, plunging the sanctuary into complete darkness.

Sam had only a fraction of a second to react, and unfortunately he was too slow. Rogers twisted out of his grasp like a cat, and when he spoke his voice was surprisingly far away, up by the altar, if Sam had to guess.

“I was just gonna ask if you knew about the blizzard,” he called. “Wasn’t sure how long you’d been here, after all.”

“Just keep talking, smartass,” Sam told him, making his way up the aisle. “Power’ll be back on in a minute, and you better believe there’ll be a resisting arrest charge added if you don’t hold still.”

“Maybe next time, Sammy,” Rogers said, a laugh in his voice.

“Don’t call me Sammy,” Sam growled. “Dammit,” he added, when there was no response, except for the sound of a door, ahead of him and to his left, swinging open and clicking closed.

He patted the pockets of his blazer before he remembered that he’d left his flashlight in the car. He turned and headed back down the aisle, stubbing his toe twice, once on the edge of a pew, and once on something solid that lurched unsteadily when he walked into it. The font, he realized, which meant that he wasn’t far from the vestibule and the giant double entrance doors.

His eyes were starting to adjust now to the grey shadows — there wasn’t even any light from the street shining in through the stained glass windows — but if he could get to his car, he could call for back-up, and use his flashlight to track Rogers’s footprints while he waited for it to arrive.

A sudden and familiar engine noise from outside startled Sam out of his plans. “Son of a bitch,” he exclaimed. He thumped his pockets again, but his keys were gone — Rogers must have snuck them out when he wriggled away.

Sam ran forward and shoved at the front doors. They opened reluctantly — deep snow had accumulated on the step — and Sam leapt outside, his eyes locked on the tail lights of his car as it struggled away from the curb and onto the unplowed street.

“Hey,” he shouted, his voice echoing off the dark buildings. “Stop! Police!”

But the car kept going, the engine whirring with the effort of making its way through the layers of snow and ice. Sam gave slow chase, wading through the snow that was almost to his waist in spots, knowing that he wouldn’t catch up. As soon as Rogers hit the main road, he’d disappear, leaving Sam with nothing but more paperwork.

Sam gasped a second later, when the car swerved without warning, spinning into a skid. The brake lights flashed, but there was no stopping the car’s momentum. It fishtailed wildly for a few dozen feet before sliding sideways into a lamppost. The crack of metal on metal rang loud and final in the silent street.

Sam quickened his pace as much as the snow would allow and reached the car a moment later. When he opened the door, he found Rogers leaning back in the driver’s seat, his eyes closed and a small bleeding wound on his forehead.

“Ow,” he mumbled.

“Dammit,” Sam swore. He reached in, grabbed the radio receiver, and spoke into it. “This is 117, I’ve got a 10-53 at St. Mary’s Cathedral, do you copy?”

No response. Sam clicked the buttons and tried again, but got nothing but static.

“I think it’s dead,” Rogers told him. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Sam retorted. He slammed the receiver down and shut off the car, leaving the headlights on so he could see. “You gonna stay put for a few minutes while I get the first aid kit?”

“I’ll try,” Rogers assured him with a slight smirk.

Sam sighed and popped the trunk. He wished he had brought a squad car tonight, and not just because then it’d be the city’s car, and not his baby, that was dented up and half-buried in snow; he wished he had a more complete emergency and first aid kit. If the accident had been worse, he’d be in real trouble.

Not that he wasn’t in trouble now. He tossed his gun inside, took out the emergency kits, and closed the trunk. He shivered as he circled the car; it was a lot colder than it had been earlier, and small, steady flakes of snow were still falling. He clenched and unclenched his hands; his fingers were getting stiff. He had to get back inside.

But he hesitated before he reached in to haul Rogers out of the car. If Rogers was hurt more than he seemed, and Sam tried to move him, he could cause some serious damage, which, among other things, could lead to a lawsuit. But the alternative was freezing to death on a closed street in the middle of a blizzard, so Sam made a decision, hoping he wouldn’t regret it.

He ducked back inside the car and palpated the upper part of Rogers’s torso, checking for anything broken, asking if Rogers was in any pain, and noticing without meaning to that, for a small guy, Rogers was built. His arms were solid, his chest and abs rock hard.

“Jeez, if you want to feel me up, at least buy me dinner first,” Rogers drawled.

Sam froze, then pulled away as far as he could in the small space. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked flatly.

Rogers blinked and dropped his gaze. Like it had been after Sam asked if he was making a threat, Rogers’s submission was instant, which both relieved and worried Sam a little. He knew how wily this guy could be; he worried that he was planning something or possibly attempting to manipulate him.

Sam shook the feeling off and finished his assessment — no damage, thank goodness — then helped Rogers climb out of the car. He flicked off the headlights, closed the door with his foot, and began the trek back to the church, one hand clenched tightly around Rogers’s bicep, the other carrying the supplies from the trunk.

“You know you deserve this, right?” Sam told him, mostly to keep his teeth from chattering. “Trying to steal my baby like that.”

“Your— that car’s a piece of crap,” Rogers replied. Sam could feel him shivering, too, but his smart mouth was apparently impervious to the cold.

“Don’t you dare speak ill of Leila,” Sam said sternly. “She’s vintage. And you’d better believe you’re paying for the damages. With all that money you stole, I’m sure you can afford it.”

Rogers hummed noncommittally, which was smart, given that whole _anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law_ thing they had going on.

“I panicked,” he said after a moment, as Sam was knocking the snow from his boots on the church porch. Rogers’s soft tone startled Sam into looking at him, and Rogers shrugged and helped him with the door.

“What is she, an ’86?” he asked in a more normal voice, once they were inside.

“Four,” Sam corrected absently. He jerked his head in the direction of the sanctuary, and he swung the second set of doors closed behind them, hoping to keep out some of the draft.

“Honda Civic, right?” asked Rogers.

“Honda—?! You shut your mouth,” Sam snapped without thinking. “Honda Civic, my ass. Leila is a Skylark, and she can fly.”

Rogers was shaking under his hold, and Sam suddenly realized that he was laughing. _Dammit,_ Sam thought. He wasn’t here to make friends, he was here to arrest this guy. He tightened his grasp and gave Rogers a little tug in the direction of one of the back pews. He led Rogers to sit, and he covered him with the reflective blanket he’d pulled out of his car’s emergency kit.

“Thanks,” Rogers said, but Sam just grunted.

“Hold still,” he said, a little more gruffly than he probably needed to.

He opened the first aid kit and put on one of the blue nitrile gloves that were inside. With his other hand, he held up the flashlight to take a look at the cut on Rogers’s forehead. He unwrapped an alcohol wipe and daubed at the blood, then bandaged the wound and did another quick assessment, this time checking for signs of a head injury. Luckily, there were none.

“Can you,” Rogers began when Sam was finished, but then he shook his head.

“Can I what?” Sam asked.

“Never mind,” Rogers said quickly. “The answer would be no.”

Sam nodded after a minute, guessing at what Rogers was going to ask and definitely agreeing — there was no way that Sam was taking the handcuffs off now. Not when Rogers had proven himself about as trustworthy as a three-dollar bill.

“So,” Sam said, closing the first aid kit. “Now we’re stranded here. Thanks for that.”

“Yeah. Better call the wife and let her know you’ll be late,” Rogers sighed. He wriggled around under the blanket and pulled his bound hands out a moment later. Between them was Sam’s cell phone. “Here,” he added, when Sam didn’t take it.

Sam stared. “How did you—?”

Rogers rolled his eyes. “Please, Detective Wilson. I’ve been picking pockets since I was ten years old.”

“Well, in that case, _Criminal_ Rogers,” said Sam, taking the phone, “I’m going to have to officially ask you if you want a lawyer present for this conversation.”

Rogers shrugged. “I guess that’s probably wise.”

 _Probably?_ Sam repeated to himself, but he let it go. He opened his phone and dialled the station number, only to be met with an automated message about how cell service was currently lacking in his area due to an unexpectedly high volume of calls. He hung up while the robot lady was advising him to try again later, and sighed.

“No luck getting through to the wife?” Rogers asked, overly sweet and sympathetic.

“I don’t have a wife,” Sam muttered, even though he’d told himself he wasn’t going to say that. “I was trying to call the station to get somebody here to help me haul your ass in.”

“Hm,” Rogers said, nodding. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring back-up to begin with.”

“Yeah, well, I brought back-up to J. Dunham last night, and you didn’t show,” Sam replied.

Rogers smirked. “Can’t be too predictable, darlin’,” he drawled, and then, amazingly, he winked.

Sam blinked, but thanks to his experience in the interrogation room, he managed to keep a straight (ha!) face. He’d never had a man flirt so openly with him. There were women, of course, — family members of victims he’d helped, speeders trying to get out of a ticket, and, one time, a trio of drunk sorority sisters he was driving home from a party that got raided — but men? Never, whether on the job or off.

Because when he’d decided to go to the academy, he’d also decided he couldn’t be out. Period.

It was nice — flattering, but, more than that, it was weirdly fulfilling, like someone was looking at him and for once actually seeing him. But at the same time, Sam could tell he was being played. Sam had the power here, and Rogers’s goal in attempting to manipulate him was clear. Sam would be a fool to trust a single word Rogers said right now.

He cleared his throat and looked away, letting the conversation drop. He focused on the dark stillness of the cathedral and the vague chill that had claimed the lower half of his legs, where the snow had melted, and his jeans were soaked and clinging. If they were going to be here all night, they’d have to find some way to stay warm; without power, the large space would cool down quickly. Hopefully, by morning, they’d be able to dig themselves out — otherwise, they had to start thinking pretty seriously about food and water. Sam was already feeling a bit hungry, and his mouth was dry from the exertion of chasing Rogers outside.

“How did you know I would be here tonight?” Rogers asked, breaking the silence.

Sam thought for a second about not answering — he’d arrested the guy, he was under no obligation to entertain him — but then he decided he may as well talk. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do.

“I didn’t,” he said honestly. “But this church was one of only a few Catholic establishments you hadn’t given to yet, so I took a chance. Call it a hunch.”

“Hm,” Rogers said again, his expression unreadable.

“Speaking of which,” Sam went on. “Where’s the money you were gonna donate?”

Rogers gave him a wry smile. “That one, I’m waiting for a lawyer.”

Sam huffed out a laugh despite himself. “Fair enough.”

Silence fell between them again, broken only when the wind howled loud enough to be heard outside the vestibule. The inner doors rattled, and Sam was glad that he’d closed them when they came inside. Still, the sound — and his wet clothing — made him shiver.

“We should save your flashlight batteries and take some candles upstairs,” Rogers suggested.

“Upstairs?” Sam repeated, frowning.

“It’s a smaller space to warm and light,” Rogers explained. “Plus, heat rises. It’s probably warmer up there already.”

Sam supposed that made sense. “Okay,” he agreed, getting to his feet. “Where would we find the candles?”

“Up here, I’ll show you,” said Rogers. With a rustle, he stood and laid the emergency blanket aside. He took a few steps up the aisle, but Sam darted in front and blocked his path.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Don’t think for a second that you’re going anywhere without a police escort.”

Rogers made a face like he was going to argue, but then the fight went out of him. Sam took hold of Rogers’s upper arm again and together they headed to the front.

Rogers stepped up onto the raised stage area and went past the altar to a plain door off to the right side of the tabernacle. It led to a small storage room. Sam scanned the space with his flashlight before he entered, checking for items that could be used as a weapon, but he didn’t see anything more threatening than dusty books and choir robes. Rogers opened a cupboard, revealing boxes of white tapered candles, complete with stubby glass holders.

“Jackpot,” Sam said. They each grabbed a few handfuls, stuffing them into their pockets as best they could, and closed the door when they left.

“One sec,” Rogers said as they went past the table off to one side of the altar, the one that had rows of unlit votive candles on it. He jerked his head in that direction and Sam nodded, following with his hand still on Rogers’s arm.

Rogers picked up the long, narrow box of matches and made like he was going to put them in his pocket. Then he hesitated, and shot Sam a furtive, questioning look.

“I came here to...” he began, then he licked his lips and exhaled a little sigh. “Can you light a candle for me? I would, but....”

He held up his cuffed hands. Sam thought for a second, then nodded. “Any one of these?”

“Yeah,” Rogers replied, sounding grateful. “Whichever one you like.”

Sam pulled one match from the box and struck it. The bright flare made a vivid picture: Rogers’s skin was golden in the firelight, faint stubble darkening his cheeks, his prominent nose and Adam’s apple casting deep, flickering shadows. Sam lowered the match to his chosen candle and stepped back— staying close enough that he could catch Rogers if he ran, and far enough away to give the man a little privacy.

Rogers crossed himself as best he could with his bound hands, and Sam looked away when he closed his eyes and started moving his lips ever so slightly. Criminal or not, Sam decided, the man had a right to his prayers. Sam knew plenty of cops — Rumlow and Sitwell, to name a few — who’d snark at Rogers right about then, joke about praying for a light sentence or make nasty comments about what he might go through in prison, but Sam wasn’t one of them. Growing up, he’d encountered enough bad cops that he’d made it his mission to never be like that.

After a minute, Sam caught the now-familiar motion of Rogers crossing himself again, and he looked over to see him stepping back from the candles. He offered Sam the box of matches, his mouth twisted up in an embarrassed smile.

“Thanks,” he said softly. Sam nodded.

“Come on, let’s get upstairs,” he replied, and Rogers held out his arm for Sam to take.


	2. Chapter 2

They made it through the colder vestibule and up the stairs to the choir loft, stopping on the way for the emergency kits and blanket that they’d left in the back pew.

It wasn’t warmer, or, if it was, it wasn’t warm enough for Sam to really notice. But as Rogers set up the candles, and Sam lit them one by one, the space did take on a cozy light that made the whistling wind seem further away. Once everything was lit, Rogers sank into a chair, and Sam took out his phone to try the station again.

“No luck,” he announced, when he couldn’t get through.

“You should take your pants off,” Rogers said.

Nothing could have prepared Sam for that. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“They’re wet,” Rogers explained. Even in the dim light Sam could see his cheeks darken slightly. “You’ll never get warm wearing wet clothes.”

Sam blinked, considering this. “Okay,” he admitted. “That makes sense.”

Rogers turned his head away in response, so Sam slid his pants down. He took off his boots and socks, too, and draped the damp items over a chair near some candles. He grabbed his jacket to cover himself and sank down to the floor with a sigh. It might have just been his imagination, but he thought he felt a little warmer already. Meanwhile, Rogers was bent over in his chair, awkwardly unlacing his boots and pulling them off.

“Lucky I cuffed you in the front, huh?” Sam said, just a little smug.

“Yeah, I guess,” Rogers replied absently.

He shoved his boots to the side and lowered himself to crouch on the floor. Then, with a small grin up at Sam, he let his wrists go limp, giving the cuffs some slack, and stepped through the loop of his arms, so his hands were behind him. He stood up with the air of a showman, but Sam just raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Been moonlighting as Harry Houdini, have you?” he asked dryly.

“Well, you saved me a step, anyway,” Rogers concluded. He crouched down and did the trick again the other way, then shifted to sit more comfortably on the floor. “You know, my mother used to call me Houdini,” he added with a chuckle.

“I bet you were a cute little delinquent,” Sam remarked, unthinking, and Rogers’s face fell.  

“I was never—” he began, but then he shook his head. “She died when I was nine.”

Sam winced. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Rogers shrugged, not looking at him. “It’s okay.”

Sam thought about sharing the story of his father’s death to offer Rogers a little comfort, but, again, he was here to arrest this guy, not be his friend. So Sam just sighed and let the silence settle between them.  

The candles flickered. Sam wrapped his coat around himself a little tighter; Rogers grabbed the emergency blanket they’d brought upstairs and spread it over his lap, its rustle loud in the empty room. Sam watched it ripple as Rogers moved beneath it, hypnotized by the dance of orange light over its metallic surface, until it finally hit him what Rogers was doing: his pants had gotten wet, too. The guy had to be freezing.

“Let me help you,” Sam said at once, raising himself to his knees and coming over to him.

“I can get it,” Rogers insisted, half-twisting away.

His belt buckle rattled when he did, and the sound startled some sense into Sam: here he was, practically hovering over someone he didn’t know — whom he was supposed to be arresting — with no pants on, offering to help the guy take his pants off, too. 

Everything about this was just wrong on so many levels.

He cleared his throat and backed off at once, putting a good five feet between them. “Sorry,” he said again, and he turned his head to give Rogers some privacy.

Another rattle, a rustle, and a thump. “Thanks anyway,” Rogers said, his voice a bit muffled. “I know this situation isn’t exactly typical.”

“No, it sure isn’t,” Sam agreed. He chanced a look out of the corner of his eye, saw Rogers’s bright white back bend slightly as he laid his pants over another chair. Sam looked away and pulled his phone out of his pocket, tried the station again. He still couldn’t get through.

“You know, there is a phone in the kitchen,” Rogers offered when Sam hung up. “A landline. I don’t know if it’ll work or not.”

Sam thought about it, but decided against looking into it right then. Going downstairs would mean putting on his cold wet clothes again, and he was just starting to warm up. He shook his head.

“I doubt anybody would get here till the morning anyway,” he said, fighting back a yawn. “By then the phones’ll be back, the roads’ll be cleared, and we can get out of here.”

“Okay,” Rogers said, but he sounded a little doubtful.

Sam nodded nonetheless and closed his eyes. The fatigue was starting to creep up on him. He yawned again, and a moment later, Rogers yawned as well, making Sam realize suddenly that he couldn’t go to sleep and leave the other man unattended. He forced himself to shake off the tiredness and sat up. He fished the key to his handcuffs out of his jacket pocket, then shuffled over to Rogers and reached for his wrists.

Rogers pulled back in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“I assume you can pick this lock?” Sam asked.

Rogers watched curiously as Sam undid one cuff and took it off. He shrugged, which pretty much confirmed Sam’s suspicions.

“So, I figure I can hook you up to the sturdiest thing in the room and you’d still be gone in the morning. But I’m a light sleeper.”

“So?” Rogers said, but his eyes widened when Sam snapped the cuff on his own wrist. “What are you—?”

“So,” Sam repeated, holding up their joined arms. “You fiddle with this in any way, and I’ll be up in no time.”

He was using his best cop voice, but Rogers didn’t look threatened. His eyes were glinting with laughter, and the corners of his mouth were twitching. Sam suppressed the urge to smile back — the damn guy could sure be charming when he wanted to be — and tossed the handcuff key into a dark corner of the room. 

“Smart move, Sammy,” Rogers said then, which helped Sam bring back his cop scowl.

“Don’t call me Sammy,” he reiterated flatly.

He lay down with his free hand behind his head as a pillow. A second later, Rogers did the same, and there suddenly wasn’t very much space between them. Sam could feel the heat coming off Rogers’s skinny body, trapped by the reflective blanket. He shivered involuntarily, his right half chilled with just his jacket draped over him.

Rogers moved around restlessly beside him, the blanket crinkling. “Do you want some of this?”

Sam thought about being stoic and toughing through it, but he shivered again and realized it wasn’t going to get better. At least with some warmth he could get a little shut-eye.

“Sure,” he said finally, sitting up.

They arranged the blanket over both of them, and now there was even less space. Sam felt hyper-aware of Rogers’s bare leg, just a fraction of an inch away — if he focused, he could feel, or imagine, the tips of Rogers’s leg hair brushing his. He forced himself not to think about it, to lie still and not let his legs twitch.

“I didn’t come here to make a donation, you know,” Rogers said suddenly, breaking a long silence.

“Oh?” Sam said, turning his head. “You want me to put that on the record, make it official?”

Rogers had taken his glasses off and was staring at the ceiling. He licked his lips, hesitating. “I’m not,” he began, then he shook his head. “I’m not admitting anything, not saying that I have the money.... But that’s not why I came here tonight.”

“Hm,” Sam said neutrally. “You know I’ve been tracing the serial numbers, right?”

Rogers, very wisely, said nothing.

“What did you mean when you said I was making a mistake?” Sam tried a minute later.

He heard Rogers exhale, but for a long time, he didn’t say a word. Then, when Sam’s drowsiness was about to overtake him, Rogers mumbled, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me Sammy,” Sam sighed.

He fell asleep before he knew if Rogers answered him or not.   

* * *

Sam awoke abruptly to the sound of tearing paper. He sat up in alarm, and someone beside him cried out.

“Hey!” Rogers exclaimed. “We’re attached here, did you forget?”

“Right,” Sam said, lowering his cuffed left hand. “Right. Sorry.”

He ran his free hand over his face, which was slick with sweat. His breathing was slowly returning to its normal pace, but he felt shaken.

Another quiet ripping sound caught his attention, and he glanced over. Rogers was sitting cross-legged, holding a hymnal open with one foot and tearing the back page out of it with his uncuffed hand. There was a small pile of hymn books on Rogers’s other side, and an uneven stack of thin pages beside it.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“Getting myself some drawing paper,” Rogers answered. “I figured since you weren’t gonna wake up any time soon, I needed some entertainment.”

“Oh,” said Sam. He blinked around the room. The candles looked faint and yellow in the daylight, but outside the window, snow was still falling. “Is the power back?”

“Nope,” Rogers replied. “I tried to make a call, too, but there’s still no cell service.”

“Wow,” Sam murmured, and then his brain caught up. “Wait, who were you trying to call?”

“Ghostbusters,” Rogers said carelessly, tearing out another page. Sam watched him, wondering if he would elaborate, but he didn’t.

“You know that’s vandalism, right?” Sam asked him finally.

“Oh no,” Rogers moaned softly. “Whatever will I do?”

Sam scoffed. “Act like an asshole? Oh, wait, you were probably gonna do that anyway.”

Rogers turned his head and gave Sam a pleased grin over his shoulder. “I like you, Sammy.”

“Thanks. _Stevie_ ,” Sam replied, glaring, but Rogers just laughed.

“See, this is why I like you,” he said.

Sam’s stomach gave a loud rumble suddenly, cutting off the conversation. “We have to get out of here,” he declared. “Come on.”

He got to his feet, pulling Rogers up with him, and then he remembered that they were pants-less. “Oh,” he said, looking away. “Sorry.”

Rogers looked down at his white boxers and pale legs and shrugged. “You were spooning me when I woke up, so—”

Sam choked on nothing. “What?”

Rogers’s cheeks were pink, but he didn’t look embarrassed. In fact, his eyes were moving down Sam’s body — a slow drift that he seemed to be enjoying. Sam squared his shoulders and stood a little taller without really meaning to, and Rogers smiled slowly.

Sam’s mouth went very dry. Nobody had looked at him like this since— ever. No one had even seen him without his clothes on since the awkward days of fumbling around with his high school boyfriend, and it was having an effect. His skin was starting to prickle with heat despite the cool air all around them, and he felt his dick getting embarrassingly hard, embarrassingly fast.

Rogers’s smile widened. His eyes darted down and back up, and he raised his eyebrows.

Sam swallowed hard. He might not be on the scene, but even he knew a proposition when he saw one.

He took a half-step backwards involuntarily, which rattled the handcuff chain. Reality crashed into Sam with that small metallic sound; Rogers was a criminal, and a wily one at that. This was surely a game of some kind— Sam couldn’t let himself be played.

“Key’s over there,” he said, his voice coming out a little hoarse.

He turned away and practically dragged Rogers along. Once he had the key, he re-attached the cuffs around Rogers’s wrists, trying very hard not to look at the white boxers that were so close to Rogers’s hands. Still, he couldn’t help but notice an unmistakable bulge there.

Sam nearly ran back to his jeans the second the handcuffs were closed. The denim was stiff with cold and still damp, but that only helped strengthen Sam’s resolve and renew his focus. Doing up the zipper, however, he made the mistake of turning around and saw Rogers bent fully forward as he stepped into his pants.

Without permission, Sam’s eyes traced the firm lines of Rogers’s ass for a second before he forced them away. He huffed out a breath and stalked away to the window.

At first he didn’t see much of anything— partially because he was preoccupied by the newest way that Rogers had just attempted to evade justice, and partially because there was almost nothing to see out there except white.

The snow had continued to pile up overnight, and it was still going. Eventually, Sam was able to discern the building across the street, the bricks plastered with blown snow, and shapes below— a vague lump that could have been his car, along with a few others. The abandoned vehicles created an eerie scene, but what was even stranger was the fact that there were absolutely no pedestrians on the sidewalks. Sam had lived in New York his whole life, and he’d never seen it so deserted.

“Pretty weird,” Rogers commented from somewhere to his left— the other window, likely.

“Yep,” Sam agreed, thinking that _weird_ was one hell of an understatement in terms of describing the last twelve hours— weather or otherwise.

“So much for the city that never sleeps,” Rogers added a moment later.

His voice was completely normal, which was a relief; Sam didn’t want to think about what had just happened. He drew a deep breath and, deciding that he had to face the guy sooner or later, he nodded and stepped back from the glass.

“Last night you said something about a landline?”

“Yeah.” Rogers looked over, and there was thankfully no trace of seduction in his expression. “In the kitchen. I’ll show you.”

“Great,” Sam said. He followed Rogers towards the stairs, but nearly walked up his back when Rogers didn’t head down them first. “What are you doing?” he asked irritably.

Rogers blinked and offered his arm. “I— I thought you’d want to— don’t you?”

“Right. Police escort.” Sam sighed and grabbed his bicep, probably harder than he had to, and started the descent.

“Personally, I like to think you’re just being a gentleman,” Rogers replied when they were about halfway down the stairs, and Sam found himself chuckling despite everything.

“Sure. Whatever you say, Stevie.”

* * *

The landline didn’t work, but there was food in the fridge — components of the church’s meal for the homeless — so Sam considered their trip to the kitchen a partial success. He did feel a little guilty eating food that was supposed to be for the less fortunate, though.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rogers told him when Sam mentioned this. “I mean, we’re kind of the less fortunate right now, so—”

“But we could go out,” Sam protested. “I’m sure there’s at least one bodega open somewhere in this neighborhood.”

“Too dangerous,” said Rogers, his mouth full. “Trust me, we’re safer staying put.”

Sam surveyed him carefully over the table. He seemed completely serious, but Sam still wondered if Rogers was making a joke.

“Trust you,” he repeated. “Trust. You.”

Rogers’s face colored, and he inclined his head like he was conceding the point. He didn’t speak though, opting instead to take another bite of his sandwich. Sam did the same, still watching him.

They hadn’t talked about what had happened upstairs, which was a relief in some ways, but Sam was also puzzled by it. It was like the person who’d eyed him so covetously only half an hour ago was a completely different person from the man now sitting across from him eating dinner rolls and cold roast chicken. This furthered Sam’s theory that the whole act had been a ruse — a sort of mask that Rogers could put on and take off at will — in order to make a bid for freedom.

Which hurt a little, if Sam was entirely honest with himself. Rogers’s flirtation last night, and his suggestive gaze this morning had affected him more deeply than he’d realized in the moment, making him feel wanted and valid for wanting back. But then he thought of how Rogers had jerked away when Sam offered to help him with his belt buckle last night. That, surely, had been the truth: Rogers wanted nothing to do with him, unless he could get something out of him.

 _Bastard,_ Sam thought bitterly. _Just another lowlife scumbag in a long line of lowlife scumbags impacting my life._ Sometimes, being a cop really sucked.

“Pardon?” said Rogers suddenly, and Sam started.

“What?”

“I didn’t quite catch what you just said,” Rogers explained.

Sam must have mouthed or whispered some of his thoughts — it was a habit he’d developed from working cases; he was used to having Riley or Misty around to be a sounding board and offer insight. Today, all he had was Rogers, who was starting to frown as he reached up to fiddle with his hearing aid.

“It was nothing,” Sam said, in as normal a tone as he could muster. “I was just saying that this sucks.”

Rogers hummed agreement and nodded, bringing his hands back down from his ear. “Could be worse,” he said, and he smiled. “Good company at least.”

“Do you mean that?” Sam asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

Rogers looked at him curiously as he chewed and swallowed. “Sure,” he said. “You’re not bad.” He shrugged. “For a cop.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, dripping sarcasm. Rogers smiled, but it didn’t last long.

“Look, I...” he began, his eyes on the tabletop. “I’m sorry. About before. I— I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

 _There he goes again,_ Sam’s inner detective voice declared triumphantly. This guy was good; he’d probably been manipulating every single person who came his way for years.

“Oh?” Sam said out loud, perfectly innocent.

“Yeah,” Rogers said. He looked up into Sam’s eyes, and Sam reminded himself not to fall for those earnest baby blues. “When I was younger I used to walk the strip, so, I guess you could say that flirting with cops is an old habit. Didn’t have much of a choice, really. Had to do it to survive.”

Sam kept his face impassive. “And giving the cops who tried to arrest you a sob story, that help you survive, too?”

Rogers flinched, but held his gaze. “Sometimes,” he said defiantly.

“Hm,” Sam said, neutral. He flicked his eyes over what he could see of Rogers’s body above the table. “But now you’ve graduated, huh? Moved up the criminal ladder, started robbing banks and investment firms.”

Rogers’s face hardened, his jaw and mouth setting like cement under the hot sun. “I wasn’t aware this was an interrogation, Detective.”

“It’s not,” Sam replied. He’d never backed down from a criminal, and he didn’t intend to start now. “Does it sound like I’m asking you questions?”

“You just did,” Rogers countered, a smirk twisting his lips, and Sam remembered that that was his reply when Rogers asked if he could ask a question last night.

“Funny,” Sam said flatly. “And here I thought we were sharing, getting closer.”

Rogers glared but didn’t answer. Sam smiled, grimly satisfied, and took another bite of his sandwich.

* * *

After they ate, Sam suggested they go for a tour of the downstairs and see if they could find something to occupy themselves with for the afternoon. Rogers merely grunted and offered his arm like a resentful date.

Sam frowned, but he took it, and they explored the room adjacent to the kitchen. There weren’t many windows, and it was quite cold, but Sam got his flashlight out of his pocket and turned it on, only to find a doll’s face in its beam.

“Argh!” he exclaimed, and Rogers snickered, shaking slightly in Sam’s hold.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” Sam asked him, turning the light on him instead.

Rogers shrugged.

“Fine,” Sam muttered. “That’s fine. We’ll see who’s laughing when I put that doll beside your head later.”

Rogers chuckled again, and Sam carried on, looking through the rest of the nursery but finding nothing but baby toys and books. He headed into the next room and found toys suitable for an older group of kids, but still nothing nearly interesting enough for an adult. Rogers did pocket the colored pencils, however. 

In the last room, Sam had some luck. It was a large space, with lots of cupboards in the corner and folded tables and chairs along the walls. Obviously, this was the place where the church held its charity meals and social events. Sam went to the cupboards and opened them, shining his flashlight inside and hoping for no more dolls. Square cardboard cards and a ball spinner were neatly stored on one side, and on the other was a stack of board games and puzzles.  

“Bingo,” Sam said. “Literally.”

He looked over to find Rogers rolling his eyes.

“Hold out your arms, we’re taking these up,” Sam told him.

Rogers sighed, but he did it. Two flights of stairs later, they were back in the choir loft.

Sam re-lit the candles, rubbing his chilly hands together after blowing out the match. He paused by one of the windows on his way, noticing that it was darker outside than it had been earlier, even though it was barely noon according to his watch.

“I wonder if that nun’s going to come back,” he said out loud.

There was no answer. Sam realized with a start that he hadn’t heard Rogers make a sound in over a minute, and he whirled around in alarm, certain that he’d have to chase the guy through snow again.

But no. Rogers was stretched out on his stomach, his jacket under him to give himself some cushion, and he was drawing.

“Should have brought a table up,” Sam commented. “That’d make life easier.”

Rogers shrugged, not looking away from the page. From what Sam could see, he was copying the design of one of the stained glass windows from downstairs.

“You’re really good,” Sam said, after a few more minutes of silence, and Rogers still didn’t answer.

Sam frowned. The guy hadn’t said anything to him in over an hour. Had Sam really pissed him off that much? And, more importantly, was Rogers — a grown-ass man, a professional cat burglar — seriously _sulking_ right now?

Another manipulation tactic, Sam told himself, but something about that conclusion didn’t feel quite right. Sam was pretty good at reading people, though he’d be the first to admit that Rogers was testing his abilities. Still, Rogers hadn’t exactly been subtle earlier when he was, in his words, falling back on old habits; as much as Sam had wanted to believe the flirtation, he knew it wasn’t real. This silent treatment felt different — closer to the way Rogers had pulled away last night, the way he’d shared the tidbits of his past, like his mother’s death and his history as a sex worker.

So, long story short, it seemed that the answer to Sam’s question was yes, Rogers was sulking.

“Are you always this dramatic?” he asked finally, but, of course, Rogers didn’t answer.

“Naturally,” Sam muttered, and he started working on a puzzle to kill the time.

* * *

Rogers came out of his sulk two hours later when he announced that he had to use the restroom.

“Cool,” Sam replied, getting to his feet. He was almost done with the puzzle — a picture of a marina in Amsterdam, according to the box — but it was becoming clear that he was missing a few pieces. “Let’s go,” he said. “And let’s bring back a table from downstairs, I’m tired of sitting on the floor.”

Rogers nodded, heading for the stairs and waiting again for Sam to take his arm. Sam sighed.

“If I let you go by yourself, will you talk to me again?”

Rogers tilted his head thoughtfully. “Couldn’t hurt,” he said with a slight smile.

Sam was surprised by how much relief Rogers’s words and smile gave him, and he grinned back. “All right, then, away you go.”

Rogers descended the stairs cautiously — they were kind of steep, and he couldn’t grab the railing with his hands bound — and Sam followed, still smiling to himself. After all, Rogers might be a criminal, but he was the only company Sam had.

Which reminded him. “Hey,” he said when they reached the lower level. “I just wanted to apologize for pissing you off earlier.”

Rogers looked over, surprised, then shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said. “I get that you can’t trust me. I mean...” He rattled his cuffed wrists, and Sam nodded.

“Still,” he said. “I could’ve been nicer. You were right, this isn’t an interrogation. There was no need for me to be the bad cop.”

They’d reached the bathroom. Sam gave Rogers the flashlight, and in its light, Rogers gave Sam a wry look before he opened the door. “Old habits?” he asked.

Sam huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Hm,” said Rogers, and, if Sam wasn’t mistaken, he looked a little smug as he closed the door behind him. Sam chuckled and paced away to give Rogers some privacy.

“Just don’t escape on me,” Sam said, raising his voice to be heard. “It’d be a hell of a lot of paperwork, okay?”

“There’s no windows in here, Detective,” Rogers called back. “So unless you think I’m going down the toilet....”

“You’re probably skinny enough to fit,” Sam muttered, and Rogers laughed at him through the door.


	3. Chapter 3

They brought more candles and a table up to the choir loft and spent the afternoon sitting across from each other playing board games. The power stayed out, but thankfully the water stayed on, and the food didn’t seem in danger of spoiling since the basement was so cold. Sam still worried vaguely that things were going too well, though. He tried the phone about once every hour, and used the one in the kitchen whenever one of them had to go to the bathroom, but the lines stayed stubbornly down.

The situation created an unpleasant, guilty weight in his stomach, since cops were generally on the front line in city-wide emergencies, but with no vehicle, a suspect in custody, and no way to reach his superior officers, there really wasn’t anything else he could do at this time. So he played board games and watched as the sky got progressively darker, until it felt like the entire day had just been that half-hour of light they saw when they first woke up.

It kept snowing. Sam wasn’t sure it would ever stop. With no people, no streetlights, and no traffic on the street below, he was starting to feel like he was living somewhere in a frozen wasteland, rather than stuck in a church in Brooklyn.

He mentioned this to Rogers at one point, and Rogers smiled wistfully. “You know, as much as I love New York, I have to admit that that’s kind of a dream of mine.”

“What? Living in the middle of nowhere?” Sam asked. He was shuffling the Uno cards; Rogers had trounced him last round.

“Specifically, the middle of nowhere up North,” Rogers explained, glancing down at the score sheet like he was checking his math, but Sam had a feeling it was (unfortunately) perfect.

“Like Alaska? Or Canada?” he asked, starting to deal out the cards.

“Yeah,” said Rogers. “I just wanna be somewhere where no one can intrude, you know? Carve out a little bit of space away from the world and just live. No responsibilities other than taking care of yourself and your own.”

Sam considered this as he set the deck down on the table and straightened it. “I guess that could be nice. Personally, I think I’d prefer doing that on a desert island, but—”

“No way,” Rogers interrupted. “Too much sun and sand. And bugs. And saltwater.”

“I take it you’re not a beach person,” Sam remarked with a chuckle.

Rogers shook his head. “I’m Irish, Sammy, I’m not designed for tropical weather.”

Sam laughed out loud before he realized what Rogers had called him, but by then it was too late, and laughing felt too good to stop.

“So what’s up there?” he asked, laying down another card.

“What do you mean?” Rogers answered. “Yellow,” he added, as he laid down a color change Pick-Up 4 card.

Sam rolled his eyes and drew four cards, but he quickly put down a yellow Pick-Up 2 on top. “Take six,” he gloated.

As Rogers groaned and reached for the deck, carefully taking his cards with his cuffed hands while trying not to knock the pile over, Sam went on.

“You could have your solitude anywhere — why there?”

“Northern lights,” Rogers said promptly. “Always wanted to see them up close.”

Sam considered this and nodded. “Fair enough,” he had to admit.

“What about you?” Rogers asked a moment later.

“You mean, do I want to see the Northern Lights?” Sam shrugged. “Kinda. Yeah.”

Rogers smiled at this, a soft genuine smile that Sam hadn’t seen before. “I mean, is there somewhere you always wanted to go? If money was no object?”

Sam really had to stop and think about that one. “There’s lots of places I’d want to go,” he said finally. “But I don’t know about settling down in any of them. Like, what makes you so sure that you’d like it up in the great white North?”

Rogers shrugged. “I’m not sure I would like it,” he said, that now-familiar note of honesty back in his voice. “But that’s why it’s called a dream, you know? It doesn’t have to be practical.”

“I suppose,” Sam conceded. “Red,” he added, when he laid down a color change card.

“Ha ha,” said Rogers triumphantly. He threw down a red 5 and declared, “Uno!”

“Fuck,” said Sam, with great feeling.

He eyed the half-dozen or so cards in his hand and looked across the table, about to make a joke about letting Rogers off with a warning if he let Sam win, but then he realized that he absolutely should not say that. He had to watch himself, and be careful not to fall too easily into a friendly conversation with the man he was supposed to be arresting. Even if the situation was highly unusual, and even if he didn’t mind hanging out with the guy, it was beyond the pale of professional integrity to even kid around about something like that. 

Rogers was frowning at him in confusion. “What? What are you looking at me like that for?”

“Nothing,” Sam said quickly. He kept his head tucked as he played another color change. “Yellow.”

“I was hoping you’d do that,” said Rogers, grinning, and he laid down his last card, a yellow Pick-Up 2.

“Fuck,” Sam said again.

* * *

By the evening, they’d moved through nearly all the games that they brought up from the basement. Sam made up for his embarrassing loss at Uno by solidly kicking Rogers’s ass at Battleship; but Rogers was ruthless at Connect Four, and Sam laughed at the way his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he contemplated his moves.

They talked as they played. Sam told amusing stories of playing these games with Sarah and Gideon, and Rogers told him a little about growing up at the children’s home, how he almost got kicked out for getting in fights, standing up for kids who were bullied.

He also showed Sam around the church some more; he said he’d been attending Mass here since he was a child, so he knew all the nooks and crannies.

“Here,” he said, pointing to the place where the back pew met the wall. “This is where I kept my stash.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Technically I’m on duty, so I’m legally obliged to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Rogers laughed. “Not drugs,” he explained. “Can I borrow the flashlight?”

“Sure,” Sam said, handing it over.

Rogers shuffled down the pew and sat against the wall. “There was a little crack,” he said, feeling around with his foot. “Right— there.”

With an ominous breaking sound, a piece of the baseboard came dislodged from the wall and hit the floor. Rogers dropped to his hands and knees and shone the light in.

“Whew,” he said, coughing. “Dusty down here.”

Sam made a noise of agreement, and Rogers twisted to look up at him. “I’ll hold the flashlight, you reach in?”

“Are you kidding me?” Sam asked incredulously. “Do you have any idea how many spiders are probably in there?”

Rogers laughed, and it started him coughing again. He tried to reach in anyway, still holding the flashlight between his bound hands, and the attempt was so bad that Sam took pity on him and knelt down on the floor.

He immediately regretted it — he was much too close to Rogers. Sam had the same strange feeling he had when they shared a blanket last night — his skin prickled, he was suddenly hyperaware of the air around him, and the places where Rogers interrupted that air.

But he tried not let any of that show in his face when Rogers turned to hand him the flashlight. Sam held it up as high as he could, trying to see how far back the hole went, but there was no telling; everything past Rogers’s pale fingers was just inky darkness.

Rogers pulled back a minute later, and Sam caught a whiff of a strangely familiar and not unpleasant scent. A second later, he realized that he was smelling Rogers and quickly got back to his feet. He felt better when they weren’t pressed together in the tight space between the pews.

Rogers set his treasures down and replaced the piece of baseboard. Sam shone the light over the small items on the pew: three rocks, a green Army Man, a tarnished gold necklace, and a folded piece of paper that was yellow with age. 

“This is your stash?” he asked doubtfully.

“Told you it wasn’t drugs,” Rogers replied. He touched the rocks and the toy soldier with a faint smile. “I forgot about these. Funny the things you think are special when you’re a kid, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. He nodded towards the necklace and the paper. “Those seem pretty  important, though.”

“They are,” Rogers said simply. “That’s why I kept them here.”

He picked them up, running his thumb over the necklace’s charm like it was a talisman. The smile hadn’t left his lips, but, in the indirect light of the flashlight beam, Sam could see his eyes were sorrowful.

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. There were so many questions he wanted to ask — _what are these things? why are they important to you? is this why you came here last night, to pick them up before you disappeared?_ — but he bit his tongue, and when Rogers seemed to come out of his reverie a moment later, Sam suggested they go back upstairs where it was warmer.

Rogers nodded, gave Sam another lingering smile, and let him lead the way.

* * *

Sam’s phone died around nightfall — all that time searching fruitlessly for a signal had drained it, he supposed — and Sam started forgoing the effort to go downstairs to the kitchen phone every hour. Instead, he listened as Rogers explained that the necklace he’d hidden in the wall was a medal of Saint Peregrine, the patron saint of those suffering from illness.

“It was my mother’s,” he said. “She had cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam replied automatically.

“Thanks,” Rogers said, just as automatic. As he had last night when he mentioned his mother, he looked away, but when he brought his eyes back to Sam, he was smiling again. “Want to see what my dad left behind? I promise, it’s not nearly as depressing.”

“Okay,” Sam said, slightly apprehensive.

Rogers picked up the aged paper — it was actually three sheets folded together — and laid it on the table. Sam couldn’t help the gasp that escaped his lips when he saw the sketches. A laughing woman with light hair; a soldier’s face, darkened by camouflage paint and framed by a netted helmet; a small blonde toddler, beaming and holding an enormous teddy bear.

“Is that you?” Sam asked, pointing. Rogers nodded.

“He was killed in Lebanon when I was two. These were in his notebook; Mom had to fight like hell to get it from the military.”

“Why?”

Rogers shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you.”

“They’re beautiful,” Sam said honestly. “This is where you get your talent, huh?”

“I guess so,” Rogers replied, re-folding the pages with care. “I must’ve copied these a hundred times when I was a kid.”

“Understandable. I lost my dad, too,” Sam said, the words slipping out without his permission.

Rogers looked up, surprised. “I’m sorry. How did he die?”

Sam swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant to take the conversation in this direction. It’d been years since he told this story, since anyone had asked; most of his friends already knew, and it wasn’t exactly something he brought up when meeting new people.

Except for Rogers, apparently.

“He was murdered,” Sam said. He knew it was too blunt, but once the words started flowing, he couldn’t seem to stop them. “I guess these guys tried to mug a lady in front of his church, and Dad, being Dad, couldn’t let that stand. So he went out to talk them down, and they didn’t like that too much. One of them had a gun, and there was a struggle, and, the next thing I knew, he was gone. Nothing I could do. It was like I was there just to watch.”

Rogers was staring at him with wide eyes, his fingers still on the Saint Peregrine medal. “You were there?”

“I was there,” Sam affirmed. “I was supposed to help him decorate the church for Christmas, and I was late coming from school.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I thought it was my fault. If I’d been on time, if I hadn’t stopped to talk to my friends, if, if, if....”

Sam jumped when Rogers’s hand landed on his. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Sam nodded, grateful. Something fragile was unfolding within his chest; his eyes blurred and his throat burned. He found he couldn’t speak anymore.

Rogers didn’t seem to need him to; he just held Sam’s hands as the candles flickered around them and the snow piled up outside.

* * *

Eventually, Sam let go and lay down on his back. Rogers started sketching again, but he stayed close by. Sam took comfort in his presence.

He must have dozed off, because he woke up on his side, even closer to Rogers, with the reflective blanket draped over him. He had a brief flash of worry that he’d left a criminal unguarded, but it was all too easy to push that away when Rogers looked over and smiled at him. Sam smiled back, evoking a strangely light sensation in his chest.

What was happening to him, Sam wondered, his thoughts muddy with sleep as he watched Rogers’s hands move his pencil over the thin paper. Whatever it was, it was peaceful, like a kind of quiet joy, and Sam didn’t want to have to let it go. Not yet.  

He lay there as long as he could, but eventually, he forced himself off the floor and wandered the loft, checking that the candles were still okay and squinting at the grey blur that was the world outside their window. He rubbed his arms as he did; it was starting to get really cold. He should go downstairs, make his hourly call, and see if he could find them any towels or blankets while he was at it.

But he hesitated to leave the loft. If it was chilly up here, it was surely freezing down there. Not to mention dark. He liked the glow of the candles, and he didn’t want to stray too far from them.

Or from Rogers, he realized with a start, and there was that airy feeling in his chest again. From a distance, Sam knew that feeling wasn’t supposed to be there, but he couldn’t help it. Rogers — for all his frustrating qualities — had opened something up inside him, and now Sam couldn’t get it to close again.

So when Rogers suggested they do a puzzle together, Sam pushed away his obligation to try and call the station again, and sat down across from Rogers at the table.

Rogers’s smile softened just a hair, his eyes stayed on him just a second too long, and then he opened the box.

* * *

“Oh, I found the piece you need,” Rogers said suddenly, about an hour later.

He half-stood and bent forward, slotting the piece into the hole that had been perplexing Sam for the last ten minutes. Sam inhaled without really meaning to, and breathed in Rogers’s scent — earthy and smooth, with just enough traces of sweat to be sexy. Something like arousal zinged through him suddenly. He shifted his chair back at once and forced his eyes away from the touchable texture of Rogers’s hair.

Which was when he noticed Rogers’s hands, still extended, his long fingers sorting through the pieces on the table. His sleeves rode up a little as he moved, and the handcuffs fell forward, revealing skin that was chafed raw and spotted with blood.

“What the hell?” Sam exclaimed.

“What’s wrong?” Rogers asked, but Sam was on his feet, grabbing Rogers’s hands and shoving the fabric up even further to get a better look.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he demanded.

“It’s fine,” Rogers insisted, trying to pull back.

“Are you seeing this?” Sam asked him incredulously. “Does it look fine to you?”

Rogers started to protest again, but Sam shook his head and reached into his pocket for the key. He tried to think back, to remember if Rogers’s wrists had been like this when he first re-attached the cuffs that morning. His mind had been a little preoccupied, what with the flirting and trying not to look at Rogers’s dick, but surely he would have noticed if it had been this bad.

And over the course of the day, he realized, Rogers had kept his sleeves pulled down as far as they’d go. Sam had assumed he was cold, but—

“It’s just an allergy,” Rogers was saying, as Sam got the cuffs open and let them clatter to the table. “I’m sensitive to metal alloys that contain aluminum.”

“That must suck,” Sam muttered distractedly. “Come on.”

He led Rogers over to where they’d slept last night, where the first aid and emergency kits from Sam’s car were still open. Sam got Rogers to sit down, and broke open a tube of antibiotic cream. As he applied it to one of Rogers’s wrists, Rogers hissed through his teeth, and then sighed.

“That feels better,” he said after a moment.

“It’s got a mild anesthetic,” Sam explained. “Good for burns.”

“I’ll say,” Rogers agreed.

Sam moved on to the next wrist, careful to handle the delicate skin as gently as he could. When Rogers made another small sound, Sam looked up and realized with a start how close together they were. He was practically kneeling in front of Rogers on the floor, like he was about to propose, or... do something else.

 _Don’t think about that,_ he admonished himself, and he inched backwards, his knees unhappy with the minute movement against the hardwood floor.

Rogers wasn’t looking at him, though; he was watching Sam’s hands, and his lips were turned upward in that soft smile that Sam was starting to love more and more.

“Thank you,” Rogers said quietly. His voice was hushed, almost husky.

Sam nodded, feeling his face heat, and applied a little more cream.

“You really aren’t what I was expecting, Detective,” Rogers went on a moment later.

“Yeah, you neither,” Sam admitted. He twisted Rogers’s wrists to make sure that he’d covered the entire irritated area, then reached for some gauze to cover the bleeding patches.

“I figured you’d be a tough guy,” said Rogers. Sam looked up, startled, and Rogers half-shrugged. “Guns blazing, that kind of thing. Of course, I wasn’t planning on meeting you so soon—”

Rogers stopped abruptly, looked at Sam with the distinct appearance of someone who’d said too much.

“So soon?” Sam repeated.

“I mean, ever,” Rogers said quickly. “I wasn’t planning on meeting you ever. Because I wasn’t planning on getting caught.”

Sam hummed in agreement. “Criminals rarely do.”

“I’m not—” Rogers began, but then he shook his head. “Never mind.”

Sam finished applying the gauze to one wrist, pressing the tape down as firmly as he could while being sure that he wasn’t causing more pain. “For what it’s worth,” he began, not looking at Rogers’s face as he moved on to the other wrist, “you’re not what I was expecting, either.”

“Really?” Rogers said softly. His tone was almost hopeful. “What were you expecting?”

Sam exhaled, slow and steady. “Two or three hours in the interrogation room. Iron-clad alibi. High-price lawyer.”

“That sounds more like what you were expecting from the case,” Rogers pointed out. “Not so much what you were expecting of me as a person.”

“Maybe,” Sam conceded, still focused on Rogers’s hands. “But it’s hard to think of cases as people sometimes. Easier to just turn all that off.”

“I get that,” Rogers said.

Sam looked up in surprise at the vehemence of his tone. Rogers’s eyes were bright and intense in the warm light. Sam shifted back without meaning to, but Rogers caught him by the wrist, held him tight.

“Rogers,” Sam tried to say.

“Please call me Steve,” Rogers practically begged him. His fingers loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. “Please, I— we’ve been through enough, S— Detective—”

“Sam’s fine,” Sam said, even though he didn’t feel fine at all. His mouth was dry, he could smell R— _Steve’s_ scent again, and his heart was racing.

 _I should get up now,_ he thought, but he didn’t move. God, he wanted—

“Sam,” Steve whispered.

The word was a prayer that Sam couldn’t ignore. He moved closer, brought his hand up to the side of Steve’s face, breathed deeply. Steve leaned into Sam’s touch.

“Will you kiss me, Sam?” he asked hoarsely.

Sam told himself again to get up, but his traitorous body wasn’t listening. He was between Steve’s feet now, their mouths were inches apart. Sam could feel Steve’s heat, felt his own flaring up in response.

“This is a terrible idea,” Sam said.

“I know,” Steve answered. “But Sam—”

Sam closed the gap between them before he could finish, pressing his lips to Steve’s. It was good, it was _so good_ to do this, to be here, like this, with Steve. Steve who saw him, Steve who wanted him, Steve who irritated the hell out of him and called him Sammy, Steve who knew him like no one ever had— like he’d known Sam forever, across a thousand lifetimes.

His fingers buried themselves in Steve’s hair, and Steve’s newly freed hands landed on Sam’s shoulders, pulling Sam up, moving with him. They were on their feet before Sam realized it, their mouths still cleaved together, Steve’s tongue slipping between Sam’s lips, his hands gripping the sides of Sam’s face, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

Sam heard himself moan, and the sound startled him. Steve laughed into his mouth, then stepped forward, walking Sam backwards until his back hit the cold wall. Steve shoved a leg between Sam’s, forcing him to widen his stance and making him suddenly, painfully aware of how hard he was. Steve glanced down, his eyes heavy-lidded, and licked his lips—

—and Sam came to his senses.

They couldn’t do this. Steve was a _criminal,_ one whose skill in manipulating cops Sam had already witnessed. The future blinked in front of Sam in a split-second: if they continued, Steve would have serious grounds to put in a breach of protocol complaint. He would get released on a technicality, and all Sam’s work to capture him would be for nothing, not to mention that Sam would probably lose his badge.

But more than that, Sam thought, even as Steve kissed him again, Sam would have to live with himself afterwards, knowing that he was the kind of cop who’d take advantage of his position, who’d exploit a vulnerable person to get what he wanted, and Sam couldn’t live with that.

He pulled away from the kiss and put his hands on Steve’s shoulders, forcing him back. Steve looked confused, but he didn’t argue. He waited while Sam took a few slow breaths and forced himself to calm down.

“We can’t do this,” he said, relieved to hear his voice come out firmer than he’d expected it to.

Steve’s confused expression slowly melted, moving past disappointment and into resignation. He nodded. “You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sam assured him quickly. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage—

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Steve countered. “I knew we couldn’t, but....”

“Old habits?” Sam offered weakly.

Steve blinked at him, confused again, but then he seemed to remember. He didn’t smile, though. Instead, his jaw clenched, and he stalked away to peer out the dark window.

“Hey,” Sam said, realizing how callous he’d just sounded. It was one thing for Steve to joke about his past, but Sam had no right. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“You just have no idea,” Steve interrupted, his back still turned. “The things I want to tell you, Sam, the things you don’t know—”

“So tell me,” Sam urged him. He hesitated, then touched Steve’s shoulder gently. “Steve, I—”

Steve flinched and turned around, holding out his hands in front of him. “You’d better cuff me again.”

“Why?” Sam asked, completely at sea.

Steve was blinking furiously, but he shook his wrists. “Cuff me and take me downstairs.”

“Why?” Sam said again. Then he saw the blue and red lights reflecting off the buildings across the street. There were no sirens, but Sam knew the patrol cars were getting closer.

He tore himself away to go get the cuffs, then carefully clicked them over Steve’s bandaged wrists. His hands lingered near Steve’s, and Steve grasped them, tight.

“I really wish we’d met under different circumstances, Sam,” he whispered.

“Me, too,” Sam said, but the words were insufficient.

Steve seemed to agree, because he tugged gently on their joined hands, and Sam went, pressing his lips to Steve’s once more, just as there was a knock on the front doors below.

“Time’s up, Detective,” Steve said, and then he smiled, sad and wistful. “Take me in.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sam didn’t recognize any of the uniformed officers who entered the church when he opened the doors. They spread out with flashlights, searching the sanctuary, not listening when Sam told them his name and showed them his badge.

“I’ll take the prisoner,” one offered, but Sam tightened his hold on Steve’s arm.

“Who’s in charge of this operation?” he demanded. “How did you find us?”

The officer shook her head. “You’re gonna want to talk to the Feds,” she answered, pointing towards to the front doors. “They’re out front, you can’t miss them.”

“Okay,” said Sam. He tugged on Steve’s arm — he seemed to have gone a little limp — and pushed open the door, only to have it collide with something much more solid and more vertical than snow.

“Ow, dammit,” the something said.

Sam looked around the door to see a sandy-haired man in a navy blue trench coat stumble down the steps. The man’s apparent partner — they were dressed almost identically — was a redheaded woman a few paces away, covering her mouth like she was hiding a smile.

“Sorry,” Sam said, stepping outside. “I take it you’re in charge?”

“Uh, yeah,” the sandy-haired man answered, fumbling a badge out of his pocket. “Strategic Homeland Intervention, and, uh—”

“Just call us SHIELD,” the redheaded woman interrupted. “I’m Agent Romanov, this is Agent Barton. I take it you’re Detective Wilson?”

“I am,” Sam answered, presenting his own badge. “You mind telling me what all this is about?”

Romanov took his badge and examined it closely before she returned it. “Just a jurisdictional dispute.”

“Jurisdictional dispute,” Sam repeated flatly. “I wasn’t made aware of any federal charges in this case.”

“Then there must have been a miscommunication,” Romanov replied smoothly.

She sent Steve an enigmatic smile as she spoke, which only served to raise Sam’s suspicions even more. He glanced sidelong at Steve for an explanation, but that was no help; Steve was looking flatly at Romanov with his lips pursed. Meanwhile, uniformed officers were coming out of the church in small groups and reporting to Barton.

“No one else is inside, sir,” one said, and Barton rubbed the back of his neck like he was embarrassed.

“Okay, great, uh, good work,” he said awkwardly. He met Sam’s gaze and quickly looked away. Sam narrowed his eyes, skeptical.

“Our superior officer is waiting at your precinct,” Romanov went on, like she could read Sam’s mind. “He’ll be able to explain everything.”

“I’ll take the criminal,” Barton offered, stepping forward.

“Alleged criminal,” Steve muttered.

Sam turned, surprised — it was the first time he’d spoken since they were upstairs — but Steve wasn’t looking at him. He and Romanov seemed to be having some kind of silent conversation with their eyes.

“Fine. We’ll take the _alleged_ criminal,” Romanov corrected. “Detective Wilson, one of the patrol officers can drive you—”

“No way,” Sam interrupted. This was just too weird. “You’re not taking my suspect without any explanation.”

“Now, come on,” Barton began to protest, but Romanov overrode him.

“No problem,” she said, sugary sweet. “You can ride with me, and Clint will go in a black and white.”

“Natasha,” Barton protested, but Romanov sent him a quelling look, and he shut his mouth.

Steve coughed suddenly, and Romanov’s smile widened ever so slightly. “Come on, my car is this way,” she said, turning around.

She led Sam and Steve to the corner, where the main road had been cleared. Three patrol cars and a black SUV were parked there; Sam helped Steve scramble over the snowbanks — Romanov managed it in her heeled boots with no issues whatsoever — and opened the back door. Steve slid in, and Sam helped him with his seatbelt before he settled in the front passenger seat. Romanov spent a moment talking to Barton outside, her face grave.

“Is this one of those things you wanted to tell me about?” Sam asked, watching them closely.

“Yeah,” Steve said after a moment. It sounded like the word was dragged from his lips. Sam glanced at him in the rear view mirror, but Steve kept his eyes averted. He opened his mouth like he was going to say more, but Romanov chose that moment to open the driver’s door and climb inside.

“All buckled up?” she asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer before starting the engine.

“You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?” Sam asked her.

She shook her head and kept her eyes on the road. “My superior officer will be able to explain in more detail when we get to the station.”

Sam rolled his eyes at the canned answer, but didn’t reply. He knew a stone wall when he saw one, and until she was ready to talk, he wasn’t going to waste his breath.

The drive to the precinct was slow — the roads still weren’t in great condition, but it had at least stopped snowing. Romanov parked in the unplowed lot beside another SUV with dark-tinted windows, and Sam led Steve inside.

The bullpen was a zoo. The holding cell was full, and almost every officer had someone at their desk. Misty and Riley looked up when Sam entered, though, and both of them got up, ignoring the shouts of the people waiting to talk to them.

“Sam, thank God,” Misty exclaimed, wrapping Sam up in a tight one-armed hug. “We were so worried when you didn’t check in last night.”

“You alright, man?” Riley asked. He glanced at Steve, then Agent Romanov, who was conferring with Agent Barton by the door, and raised his eyebrows.

“I’m good,” Sam told him, meeting his eyes, so Riley would know he meant it. “Where’s the captain at?”

“Her office,” Misty replied. She lowered her voice. “She’s pretty pissed about the Feds stepping in.”

“Have to say, I can’t blame her,” Sam agreed. He tugged on Steve’s arm, leading him closer to Misty. “Do me a favor, put this guy in holding, and I’ll go talk to her. Ri, I need you to—”

“No,” said Romanov’s voice from behind him. “Your perp is coming with us.”

Sam clenched his jaw. Maybe it was the thought of his long, frustrating search for Nomad being suddenly worthless, or maybe it was the serious mess of feelings that he’d waded into in the last twenty-four hours, but he’d had enough. He turned sharply; Romanov blinked, but she didn’t step back.

“Is that right?” Sam asked her, getting into her space. “On what grounds? You haven’t even told me what charges he’s facing, and I haven’t seen you put in one second of the work that I have on this case, so until I get an explanation — and something real, none of this _talk to my boss_ bullshit — you are not laying one hand on my prisoner. Is that clear?”

He wasn’t speaking that loudly, but by the time he’d finished he was aware that everyone in the bullpen was listening. A hush had fallen; the room seemed to be holding its breath.

“We’re clear,” Romanov said after a moment, and the room’s tense atmosphere eased. “If you’ll both just come with me?”

She stepped deftly around him, again not waiting for an answer, moving like liquid through the crowded room to Captain Danvers’s office. Sam followed her with Steve; Misty and Riley watched them go with wide eyes.

Sam could hear the captain talking on the other side of the door, but her voice fell silent as soon as Romanov knocked. A tall man with an eyepatch opened the door. He surveyed Sam quickly, skipped over Steve completely, and nodded to Agent Romanov.

“Natasha,” he said in a low rumble. “Glad you made it back safely.”

“Come on in, Sam,” Captain Danvers called from behind the eyepatch man. “Close the door.”

Sam did as she requested, catching Riley’s worried glance before the door clicked shut. He turned, found Danvers scrutinizing him.

“Are you alright, Sam?” she asked seriously.

“I’m fine, Captain. Caught Nomad,” he reported. “I think.”

Danvers’s mouth twitched up like she wanted to smile, but she settled herself behind her desk and gestured to the eyepatch man. “Director Fury would like to talk to you about that. Take a seat.”

Sam sank into one of the chairs opposite Danvers’ desk, a little apprehensive. To his left, Steve was being wrangled onto the small sofa against the wall by Romanov — there was something weird about their interaction, but Sam couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

“Detective Wilson, I’m Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD,” the eyepatch man said, commanding Sam’s attention with his sharp tone and extended hand.

Sam shook it — Fury’s grip was firm, his palm warm and dry. “Sir,” Sam said with a nod. “What can I do for you?”

“Well first of all, we got our wires crossed on this one, and for that, I’d like to apologize.”

He folded his arms across his chest like he was daring Sam not to accept his apology, so Sam nodded again. “I understand, sir.”

“Good.” Fury drew in a deep breath and looked to Romanov, then did a double take. “Get those things off him, will you? His skin’s gotta be rashing.”

“I’m alright, sir,” said Steve.

“Sir?” Sam repeated, surprised and confused.

“It seems you arrested one of my best agents, Detective,” Fury said, sounding equally proud and annoyed.

Sam’s mouth fell open. “Oh.”

“If he’s your best agent, why the hell didn’t he say anything?” Danvers asked Fury, when Sam didn’t say anything more.

“Because he knows how to follow orders,” Fury replied shortly.

Steve coughed. Sam glanced at him, noting his pink cheeks and the way that he still wouldn’t look at him. Romanov was covering her mouth again.

“We’ve been infiltrating a terrorist cell for months,” Fury began, pacing the small office. “They think they’re some kind of Robin Hood group, hitting banks and corporations in one city, pumping stolen money into local charities, and then heading off to a different state before anyone gets wise to their pattern.”

“I don’t see how that’s considered terrorism,” Danvers pointed out. “Last I checked, theft was still something we were allowed to arrest people for.”

Fury nodded in her direction, conceding the point. “On the surface, you’re right. But that’s just the surface.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

Fury’s beady eye landed squarely on Sam. “You know all those mass shootings we’ve had lately? A lot of them have roots in this community.”

“So the shooters start as thieves,” Sam said, trying to understand the point Fury was driving at.

“Not exactly,” Romanov chimed in. “The organization has a lot of back-door dealings with hate groups. They give a lot to charity as a way of enticing new members, making them think that they’re the good guys.”

“And little by little they come to see themselves as the hero,” Fury finished. “No matter how heinous their actions.”

“Jesus,” Sam muttered. Fury nodded again.

“Now, Agent Rogers here, he fits the exact demographic they’re looking for,” he explained. “He’s relatively young, white, blonde. He’s a small enough guy to have a beef about it and take that anger out on the world.” Fury chuckled as he leaned back against Danvers’s desk, directly in front of Sam. “Hell, with all that Aryan perfection, he may as well be on their recruitment posters.”

“So you sent him in,” said Sam. The picture was beginning to get clear, and what he saw gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach. “I ruined it, though. Didn’t I?”

Fury shrugged. “We were getting pretty close. Rogers was starting to get messages from the higher-ups, starting to gain their trust, and—”

“This is on nobody but you, Director Fury,” Danvers interrupted fiercely, getting to her feet in a blur of motion. “What did you expect would happen? Detective Wilson has been working the Nomad case for months, and not once did SHIELD contact him, or me, to tell us that we shouldn’t be looking into this.”

“Captain Danvers,” Fury tried to say, but Danvers continued.

“Someone in Brooklyn is breaking into safes, stealing thousands of dollars— did you think that we would just let that go unchecked? Or did you so underestimate our competence that it didn’t even occur to you that we might catch you?”

“They weren’t real thefts,” Romanov interjected.

Danvers fell silent at once. She and Sam locked eyes, then looked to Romanov for an explanation. She didn’t seem perturbed by their attention — she was busy picking the lock to Steve’s cuffs. Steve was watching her work; he still wouldn’t meet Sam’s eye.

“What do you mean?” Danvers asked finally.

Fury sighed. “J. Dunham, two nights ago? You weren’t supposed to know about that, Wilson. That’s why we pretended to hit Smith Holdings instead.”

“Can’t be too predictable, right?” Sam murmured, and he knew he wasn’t imagining it when Steve twitched.

“Okay,” Danvers said, her tone rising again. “But even if they weren’t real thefts, you still should have told us.”

“You’re right,” Fury told her. She seemed to deflate a little at the admission and sank back into her chair. “We made a mistake. SHIELD should have contacted you the minute your precinct got involved, Captain Danvers.”

“Why didn’t you?” Sam couldn’t help asking.

“We didn’t interfere at first because we needed it to look real, to get the word out on the street that Nomad was a real threat, someone worth taking seriously,” Fury went on. “Our first priority was to secure Agent Rogers’s credibility, but if I’d known that Detective Wilson was getting so close, I would have stepped in. I apologize.”

“Thank you,” Danvers said stiffly. “Now where does this leave us?”

“Frankly, I’m not sure,” Fury replied. “This storm may be a stroke of luck—”

“Says the guy whose officers aren’t working round the clock to control its aftermath,” Danvers muttered.

“It’s all over the Internet that New York’s been hit hard,” Fury continued. “So no one is going to question it if Agent Rogers disappears for a couple days.”

“Except me,” said Romanov. She grinned up triumphantly as Steve’s handcuffs opened and fell to the sofa. “You’re welcome, by the way, for tracking you down and saving the day. As per usual.”

He managed a smile in her direction, and nudged her back when she shoved at his shoulder, and something clicked into place in Sam’s brain — they were like brother and sister. That was the dynamic between them that he couldn’t identify earlier.

His heart sank as the depth of that realization hit him. Steve had a whole life that wasn’t anything like the one he’d told Sam about. Which meant that the man Sam had been getting to know over the last eighteen hours didn’t really exist. It was all a cover, a lie, and Sam had fallen for it — hook, line, and sinker — thinking all the while that he was smarter than that, that he could tell Steve’s attempts at manipulation from his moments of truthfulness.

Turns out it was all manipulation, and Sam was an idiot.

Fury and Danvers were still talking, discussing how to proceed with the case, but they stopped when Sam got to his feet.

“Can I go?” he asked bluntly.

“We’ll need you to fill out some paperwork,” Danvers said uncertainly, looking to Fury for confirmation.

He waved a hand. “Get some rest, Wilson. We’ll draw everything up, so all you have to do is sign it. That can wait until morning.”

“Great,” Sam muttered.

He left the office without a single look in Steve’s direction. There was nothing worth seeing there, anyway.

* * *

The next two weeks passed in a haze of sleep and work. The day after his briefing in Danvers’s office, SHIELD was gone without a trace. Sam came in to write and sign the report that Fury wanted him to file, and Danvers thanked him for his hard work, apologizing for the way that everything went sideways in the end and suggesting that he take a few days off.  

He didn’t. Instead, he hopped onto the cases that Riley, Misty, and Luke were working — storm-related B&Es, for the most part. Hanging out with them during the day, Sam felt almost normal. He laughed, he talked, he worked. Nobody asked him about what happened at the church, and Sam didn’t talk about it. Soon, the incident began to feel like a part of someone else’s life, like a story he’d read a long time ago.

At night, though, at home, Sam was restless. His sleep was full of fractured dreams about sex and snow, shadowy crucifixes lit by the Northern lights, and sometimes he woke up so angry that he went straight to the mini punching bag he had hanging in the corner of his living room. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough, and he’d have to go for a run, leaving his apartment hours ahead of the sunrise, jogging past still-drunk partygoers and pretending not to see the drug deals happening on every corner.

 _Selective blindness,_ his mother would call it. Sam called it survival.

So when he noticed a slender blonde man running slightly behind him one morning, Sam closed his metaphorical eyes and hoped he would go away.

He didn’t.

“On your left,” he said, when Sam waited for the walk signal to change, bouncing from foot to foot to keep warm.

Sam didn’t turn around, and eventually the light changed.

He said it again the next day when Sam was turning a corner, and once more when he stopped for a drink of water. Sam grunted that time, but still didn’t look at him.

This went on for almost a week, until Sam found himself ready to snap.

“Don’t say it,” he warned over his shoulder on the third day in a row, as he turned a corner and caught a glimpse of blonde hair in his peripheral vision again. “Don’t you say it—”

“On your left,” Steve panted when he went by.

“Oh, come on,” Sam called after him.

“Got you talking to me, didn’t I, Sammy?” Steve called, turning back before he took off again.

“Asshole,” Sam muttered, but he knew he hadn’t been running hard enough to make his heart beat as fast as it was.

He pushed the incident aside, and continued along his normal route. It led circuitously to his favorite coffee joint, which was just opening for the day. He smiled as it came into sight, but then he scowled.

Because there, waiting for him by a snow-covered bench out front, was Steve.

Sam stopped on the other side of the street and stared. He couldn’t deny that he knew this was coming, but, for an incredibly long moment, he thought very hard about just going home. But his heart was skipping beats again, and he was cold, with a caffeine headache starting to creep up on him, so he heaved a sigh and crossed the street.

“Detective,” Steve greeted him.

“Agent,” Sam replied, walking by.

“Sam,” Steve tried again, following him. “Can we talk?”

“That depends,” Sam said, opening the door and waiting for some customers to file out. “Can you go ten minutes without lying to me?”

“I didn’t—” Steve began, but then he stopped himself. “Please. I’ll pay, I— I owe you at least that.”

He looked into Sam’s eyes, and Sam was strongly reminded of his surrender at the church: and the fact that it made his stomach leap hopefully only served to piss him off. But it was probably inevitable that they have this conversation, so he sighed again and gestured for Steve to go ahead of him.

“Thank you,” said Steve as he passed.

“You’re damn right,” Sam answered, following him to the counter. “You owe me a hell of a lot, starting with an explanation.”

“I know,” Steve agreed heavily. “What can I get you?”

Sam ordered the most expensive drink on the menu, even though he’d normally just go for a small black coffee, and he also requested a chocolate croissant — warmed up, of course. Steve placed the order without comment, but when they got to a booth, he surveyed Sam’s mountain of whipped cream that supposedly had some form of coffee under it, and shook his head.

“You’re really not what I was expecting,” he said fondly.

Sam stared down at his pastry; his appetite had evaporated. “You said you wanted to talk,” he said, the words coming out like water from a rusty tap. “So talk.”

“Okay,” said Steve. He took a sip of his coffee, then pushed his cup aside. “Let me just start by saying I’m sorry.”

Sam nodded. “Good place to start, I guess.”

“Fury was right, with what he said to your captain,” Steve went on. “We made a mistake. A big one, by underestimating the NYPD. And by underestimating you,” he added in a lower voice.

“Thanks,” Sam muttered. “I think.”

“But that’s not all I’m sorry for,” said Steve. His hand moved like he wanted to reach across the table, but he reconsidered it at the last second. “I wish I’d told you, right away, what was going on. I— I acted rashly when I ran, and I betrayed your trust before we could even start to build it.”

Sam blinked at the table and nodded again. The apology sounded rehearsed, but Sam couldn’t judge him for that. Not when he’d been planning conversations with Steve off-and-on for three weeks, and pretty much constantly since Steve turned up on his run.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked finally.

Steve leveled his gaze at him. “We both know you’re far too good a cop to believe me.”

“I don’t know about that,” Sam protested.

“Don’t be modest,” Steve replied. “You would have had no right or reason to believe me, and you’re way too good at your job to trust me with no verification.”

Sam tilted his head to the side, conceding the point.

“I panicked,” Steve continued. “You got me, and... I didn’t have anything. No gun, no badge. Hell, I didn’t even have my phone.”

“Why not?” Sam asked.

The question seemed to startle Steve out of his narrative. “Why... what?”

“Why didn’t you have anything on you?” Sam asked, his voice gaining strength the more he spoke. “You could have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble, not to mention—”

He bit his tongue. The shame and humiliation he felt whenever he thought about kissing Steve was still too fresh.

Steve seemed to understand; his cheeks were blazing, but he didn’t look away. “I told you,” he said. “I told you I wasn’t there to make a donation. I came to the church that night because I couldn’t sleep, and it was my mother’s birthday, and I wanted to light a candle for her.”

“So she’s really dead,” Sam said dully. He knew how insensitive he sounded, but he couldn’t help it.

“Of course she’s dead,” Steve said, like he couldn’t imagine how Sam had reached an alternate conclusion. “Did you really think—”

Sam looked up when Steve stopped talking. His mouth was hanging open, but then his shoulders slumped, and he exhaled out his nose.

“Of course you did,” he said softly. “Why wouldn’t you? God, Sam, I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Sam asked, feeling a little lost.

Steve leaned in, and his hand twitched again before he slid it across the table and rested his fingers on Sam’s forearm. “Everything I told you was the truth, Sam, or, as much of the truth as I could spare.”

Sam blinked, thinking suddenly of Steve’s flirtations and their conversation in the church kitchen afterwards. “So you really used to be a...” he trailed off, unable to say the word.

“Yes,” said Steve, unabashed.

“And you’ve been picking pockets since you were ten years old?”

“Yes.”

“And you crack safes, donate the money to charity?”

Steve hesitated on that one, tilting his head from side to side. “Almost?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. Steve rolled his eyes and sighed, pulling back.

“I was a hacker,” he explained in a low voice. “I ripped off corporations, hung out their dirty laundry, that kind of thing.”

“And now you’re on the other side of the law?” Sam prompted skeptically.

Steve winced. “Kind of. Five years ago, SHIELD sent Nat to arrest me, and she made a different call. Fury offered me a job instead of jailtime, and...” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I jumped on it.”

“Why wouldn’t you,” Sam said flatly. After more than ten years on the force, he couldn’t even muster surprise at the way that the justice system was a brick wall for some, and a revolving door for others.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said again, after a lengthy pause. “I really didn’t think you were that close to catching me.”

“Me neither,” Sam admitted with a sigh. “I was going on instinct— I picked St. Mary’s off a list, for crying out loud. If I’d known it had value for you....”

“There was nothing in my phony history about it,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“So it was forged?” Sam asked.

“Not entirely,” Steve replied. “A lot of my rap sheet’s real, it was just... embellished a little for the assignment.”

Sam nodded his understanding.

“And even if there was something about St. Mary’s in my history,” Steve went on, “I didn’t think you’d accessed that information yet. My instructions were to skip town the second you did. But with the way you were waiting for me at J. Dunham, and the storm and all....”

“It was a weird day,” Sam commented.

“You can say that again,” Steve agreed. He took a sip of his coffee, and Sam watched the line of his throat as he swallowed, his head still swimming with questions.

“So that’s why you stole my car, you were just playing a part?”

“I guess I played it up a little,” Steve answered with a self-deprecating smile. “Like I said, I panicked, and I screwed up, and I’m sorry.”

Sam took a bite of his croissant, considering this. It was as good an explanation as any, he supposed. And it matched what Steve had said in the moment, too.

“Those things in the wall,” Sam mused out loud, without really meaning to. Steve sent him a sharp look. “They were really yours?”

“Yeah,” said Steve, his voice a little rough. He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. “Mostly I’m in DC now. But I grew up here, I went to St. Mary’s until I was 21. Still have a few shady connections in the neighborhood, so this is where Fury put me. And I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere near that church, but....”

“But it was your mother’s birthday,” Sam finished for him. “And you wanted to protect the last pieces of her and your father that you had left.”

Steve’s gaze was locked on the window beside their table. The bright snow reflection created a glare on his glasses that hid his eyes. “It was stupid,” he confessed, his jaw tight. “Stupid and arrogant and selfish.”

“Human love often is,” Sam murmured, thinking of something his father used to say on the pulpit. Usually, he’d follow it up by comparing human love to God’s love, but Sam was no preacher. “You’re still paying for my car,” he told Steve instead.

Steve looked over in surprise, and he huffed out a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “I will.”

Sam nodded and took a sip of his monstrously fluffy coffee. It was actually good— rich and dark and sweet. Steve drank his coffee as well, but he seemed distracted. After a moment, he set his cup down and frowned at it.  

“And I wasn’t lying about, uh,” he said, his words faltering when Sam looked at him.

“About what?” Sam asked. His hopeful heart was speeding up again, but he tried to ignore it.

“When I asked you to kiss me,” Steve said, all in a rush.

Sam’s brain seemed to short out. His fingertips went cold as his heart warmed up. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, I see.”

“Unless...” Steve added, hesitating.

“No,” Sam said quickly. “I wasn’t— I wanted to... unless you didn’t?”

“No,” Steve echoed. “I wanted to, too.”

Sam let the silence sit between them for a moment, then he grinned. “So it wasn’t a desperate bid for freedom from a wanted man?”

Steve laughed. The sound was pure relief. “Maybe next time.”

He reached out cautiously, and Sam took his hand, held on, forcing himself to not fidget as Steve smiled at him across the table. Sam thought fondly back to the hours they’d spent talking and playing games in the choir loft. If he concentrated, he could smell the melting wax and watch the flickering lights cast shadows on Steve’s face; the image made him feel like he was glowing inside.

“Fury’s gonna offer you a job,” Steve said, startling Sam out of his imagination.

“Me?” Sam said, pulling back in surprise. “What did I do?”

Steve sent him an amused look. “You don’t already know?”

Sam felt his smile widen, but he shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe I just want to hear you say it,” he said, relieved that he sounded so smooth.

Steve grinned back at him. “Well, I guess he thinks you’re all right, Sammy.” He winked. “For a cop.”

“Okay, Stevie, whatever you say,” Sam pretended to grumble, but he couldn’t keep a straight face when Steve reached across the table again with both hands and interlaced his fingers with Sam’s.

“I think you’re all right, too,” he added softly. “In case you were wondering.”

“I was, a little,” Sam admitted.

“Well, I just want you to be prepared when the offer comes,” Steve explained. “No pressure, but I did already give you a glowing recommendation.”

Sam chuckled. “Thanks.”

He glanced down at their joined hands, aware for a second that the thought of this kind of touch — in public, with another man — would previously make him panic, but he felt oddly indifferent to others’ reactions right at that moment. In fact, the weight that he’d been carrying for years, ever since he went to the academy, seemed suddenly lighter.

Steve had looked at him and seen him, seen something worth wanting. And he wasn’t a criminal, he wasn’t a liar, he wasn’t faking it, he wasn’t being manipulative. And Sam could look right back, want him right back, because he wasn’t breaking any rules by doing so, and even his own rules about being out and being a cop weren’t going to apply much longer if he wasn’t going to be a cop anymore. Sam could want this — want Steve — and maybe he could _have_ him. Kiss him, love him, know him — across a thousand lifetimes.

So he had to ask, now, before he could hesitate again. “Any chance of us getting assigned together?”

Steve’s answering smile was like clouds parting. “I would hope so.”

Sam reminded himself to breathe. He licked his lips and leaned in. His heart was doing somersaults behind his ribs. “Maybe somewhere up North?”

Steve leaned in closer, too. “What’s up North?” he asked, though from his expression, Sam knew he knew.

“A dream,” Sam said simply, and he pulled Steve into a kiss that he hoped would never end.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on ~~Tumblr~~ [Dreamwidth](https://mrs-d.dreamwidth.org/) if you're at all interested in checking out my SamSteve obsession.


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